“We have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.” Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces.
Skiing is as crucial to the vitality of many mountain towns of the modern west as, say, mining and logging and ranching once were and, in some places, still are. It is arguable whether the cattle, mining and logging barons (some of them robbers, some not), and the gunmen who did their bidding, of the west’s 19^th and early 20^th centuries could be viewed as heroes, but they certainly were powerful icons of undisputed influence who have, for the most part, left environmental and therefore social devastation in their clear-cut, open-pit, over-grazed, violent wake. Skiing, however, has some genuine heroes who, as Joseph Campbell points out, have left a thread to guide us to the center of our own existence where it is possible to see more clearly what we do and why and what it might mean.
Each year there are more and more skiers venturing into the backcountry. They seek different rewards—nature, solitude, untracked skiing, a relief from the congestion, pretension and effortless convenience of modern ski resorts and a better workout than can be found on their lifts, and adventure with consequences for lapses in judgment, knowledge or respect—traveling out to find “the center of our own existence.”
And in western America the first great hero of backcountry skiing must surely be the Norwegian immigrant known as Snowshoe Thompson. Born Jon Torsteinson-Rue (later changed to John A. Thompson) April 30, 1827 in a small town in the Telemark region of Norway he came to America at age 10, living in Illinois, Missouri, Iowa and Wisconsin before moving to Placerville, California in 1851 to join the gold rush. In 1855 he saw an ad in the Sacramento Union newspaper: “People lost to the world; Uncle Sam needs a mail carrier” to carry mail from Placerville east across the snow of wintertime in the Sierra Nevada to Mormon Station, Utah which later became Genoa, Nevada.
Like most Norwegians of Telemark he had learned to ski as a child and brought those skills to the New World. He was the only applicant for the mail job, and in January 1856 a crowd in Placerville watched him leave on his first 90 mile journey across the Sierra. His homemade skis (called ‘snowshoes’, thus the nickname) were 10 feet long, made of oak and weighed 25 pounds, though in later years he got them down to about 9’4” and a bit lighter. Few in the crowd thought he would make it, but five days later he returned, having delivered the mail going east and bringing back the mail going west. Thus began the career of a true hero of the old west, the father of California skiing, and a truly legendary postman.
Two to four times a month for the next 20 winters Thompson made the trip, 3 days east, 2 days coming back west, covering between 25 and 40 miles a day. Because his sack of mail weighed between 60 and 100 pounds he carried minimal personal equipment: a few crackers, some bread and dried meat to eat; a heavy Mackinaw and a wide rimmed hat for shelter and sleep. He didn’t use a compass and once said, “There is no danger of getting lost in a narrow range of mountains like the Sierra, if a man has his wits about him.” Every modern day backcountry skier—with lightweight tent and sleeping bag and insulated mattress, compact stove, skis, boots, poles, gloves and layered system of clothing weighing less that one of Thompson’s skis, GPS, cell phone, transceiver, shovel and probe—can appreciate the simplicity and austerity of Snowshoe’s tours across the Sierra.
The Sacramento Union wrote of Thompson, “His reliability, kindness and physical prowess quickly earned the admiration and respect of the Sierra residents.”
He was never paid for his efforts and service. He continued to do it for reasons that are speculative; but every skier can appreciate that skiing is something other than the economics of skiing, especially in the backcountry. Ron Watters wrote of Thompson, paraphrasing Dan DeQuille “The mountains were his sanctuary, and storms were just another part of its raw beauty. On his skis, he could freely move across the snow covered landscape. The feeling of freedom must have been never more real to Thompson than when gliding downhill, holding his balance pole out in front of him, dipping it one direction and then the other, his wide-brimmed hat flapping in the wind and the Sierras spread out in front of him. At times like that, he must have felt like a soaring eagle.”
And S.A. Kinsey, the postmaster of Genoa, where Thompson is buried, said, “Most remarkable man I ever knew, that Snowshoe Thompson. He must be made of iron. Besides, he never thinks of himself, but he’d give his last breath for anyone else—even a total stranger.” A true hero of the old west, at the center of our own existence.